Chapter 6 #2
Carson was quiet for a moment. “Look, I get it. I really do. But Captain already chewed me out once for going off-book on Nora’s case. I’m trying to do better these days.”
“I’m not asking you to make mistakes or lie for me.
I’m asking you to give me time. Just long enough to build a case before anyone shuts me down.
” Dax turned onto the main road, his fingers drumming against the steering wheel.
“Wheeler’s dirty, Carson. He killed David Barrett.
He killed Thomas Crane. And he just tried to intimidate Quinn Barrett into silence.
If we don’t stop him, he’ll kill her too. ”
Carson was quiet for a long moment. Dax could hear papers rustling in the background, the murmur of voices in the precinct, the familiar sounds of the bullpen. “You have proof? Real proof?”
“Working on it. But yeah, I’ve got financial records showing money laundering, inconsistencies in both death investigations, and now direct threats against a journalist investigating the case.” Dax’s fingers tapped against the steering wheel.
“That’s not proof of murder.” But Carson’s tone wasn’t dismissive—it was thoughtful, like he was working through it himself.
“It’s enough to keep investigating. Which is all I’m asking for—time.” Dax pulled into town, the familiar storefronts sliding past his window. “Just give me a week. If I can’t build a solid case by then, I’ll drop it.”
“You’ve never dropped a case in your life.” There was almost warmth in Carson’s voice now, understanding.
“There’s a first time for everything.”
Another pause. Then Carson sighed, the sound crackling through the speaker.
“Fine. One week. But Mercer—I mean it about the captain. I can’t lie to him, not after...
” He trailed off, and Dax knew he was thinking about Nora, about how close he’d come to losing his badge.
“If he asks me directly, I have to tell him. But I won’t volunteer anything. ”
“That’s all I’m asking.” Dax’s grip on the wheel relaxed slightly.
“And for what it’s worth? I get it. I really do.” Carson’s voice dropped lower. “Just...don’t let it cost you everything. The case isn’t worth your life. Or hers.”
“That won’t be an issue.” Dax ended the call, tossing the phone onto the passenger seat where it landed with a muted thud.
He drove through downtown Blackridge, noting the quiet streets. Summer evening, people out for walks, kids riding bikes, dogs pulling at leashes. Normal small-town life. The evening light was golden, peaceful, casting long shadows across the storefronts.
Except nothing was normal. Not anymore. A killer was operating in their town. Had been for years. And nobody had noticed. Dax’s jaw clenched at the thought.
Dax pulled up to Quinn’s grandmother’s house twenty minutes later. Two black SUVs sat in the driveway—FBI vehicles, unmarked but obvious if you knew what to look for. Professional. Serious. The kind of presence that said “don’t even think about it” to anyone watching.
He knocked on the door, his knuckles sharp against the wood. A woman answered almost immediately—mid-thirties, fit, with sharp eyes that assessed him in a second, taking in his badge, his posture, his hands. FBI, definitely.
“Detective Mercer?” she asked, her voice crisp and professional.
“That’s me.”
“Agent Lisa Torres. Harper sent me.” She was mid-thirties, fit and sharp-eyed, with her dark hair pulled back in a tight ponytail.
She extended her hand, her grip firm and brief, all business.
“My partner’s inside with the elderly woman.
He’s a nurse practitioner. I’m handling security.
” She stepped aside to let him in, her eyes already scanning the street behind him before closing the door.
Dax took in the living room. The shattered front window had been secured with heavy plastic sheeting, taped tight to the frame—professional work, no gaps.
The once-sunny room was dim now, the plastic filtering out most of the natural light.
The floral couch was still there, doily-covered side tables, photographs of Quinn at various ages covering every surface.
But the warmth was gone, replaced by shadows.
“Glass company’s coming first thing in the morning,” Torres said, following his gaze. “Harper’s orders. She wants this place fully secured.”
Dax nodded. Thorough. That was Harper.
Torres guided him past the living room, down the short hallway where the light was even dimmer.
The bedroom had been transformed. The hospital bed still dominated the small space, but now medical equipment surrounded it—monitors beeping softly, their steady rhythm filling the quiet room.
An IV stand catching what little light filtered in from the hallway.
Additional equipment Dax didn’t recognize, all professional-grade.
A man in casual clothes—the nurse—stood beside the bed, checking the grandmother’s vitals with practiced efficiency, his movements gentle and sure.
The grandmother was awake, watching Dax with tired but alert eyes. Her face was pale against the pillows, skin papery thin and bruised from IVs, but her gaze was sharp. Assessing.
“You must be the detective taking care of my Quinn,” she said, her voice weak but steady. Each word measured, deliberate.
“Yes, ma’am. She’s safe. I promise you that.” Dax moved closer to the bedside, his boots soft on the carpeted floor, his voice gentle in a way he rarely used.
“Good.” The old woman’s shoulders relaxed slightly, sinking deeper into the pillows. She closed her eyes, her breathing evening out. “She’s all I have left. Keep her safe.”
“I will.” The words came out like a vow.
Agent Torres led Dax back outside, closing the door behind them with a soft click, then walking several paces away from the house. “Harper briefed me on the situation. Death threats, escalating violence, organized crime connection. We’re treating this as a credible threat.”
“It is credible. Wheeler’s killed before.” Dax scanned the street, the neighboring houses, looking for anything out of place.
“Then we’ll make sure he doesn’t kill again. At least not here.” Torres gestured at the house, her stance professional, ready, feet shoulder-width apart. “We’ve got cameras set up, motion sensors, and both of us are armed and trained. Nobody’s getting past us.”
“Good.” Dax trusted Harper’s judgment. If she’d sent these two, they were solid. The best.
“Harper also said you’d want to check the journalist’s car. It’s still in the driveway.” Torres’s gaze shifted to the vehicle, her expression neutral but alert.
Dax walked over to Quinn’s car—a sensible sedan, a few years old, nothing fancy, the kind of car a journalist would drive. Practical. He crouched down, his knees protesting slightly, and looked underneath. The asphalt was rough under his boots, small stones pressing through the soles.
There. Attached to the undercarriage, barely visible in the shadows. A small package wrapped in duct tape, the silver catching what little light reached it.
Dax’s blood went cold. His stomach dropped like he’d missed a step. He knew that shape. Knew what it meant. Had seen it too many times in Afghanistan.
Bomb.
He stood up slowly, every movement deliberate and controlled, his mind already running through procedures. His hands stayed steady through pure force of will. “Torres, get everyone inside. Now. Don’t argue, just move.”
To her credit, Torres didn’t hesitate. She was inside in seconds, probably alerting her partner.
Dax circled the car, examining it from every angle without touching anything.
The device was small—maybe two pounds of explosive, based on the size.
Probably homemade, but professional quality.
Attached with magnets to the metal undercarriage.
His heart hammered against his ribs, but his breathing stayed even. Years of training keeping him calm.
It would have detonated when Quinn started the car. The blast would have been contained mostly underneath, channeled upward through the driver’s seat. She would have died instantly.
Wheeler hadn’t been bluffing. He really was trying to kill her.
Dax pulled out his phone and called the bomb squad. Blackridge didn’t have one—they were too small. But the county did, based out of the sheriff’s office twenty miles away.
“This is Detective Dax Mercer, Blackridge PD. I’ve got an IED attached to a civilian vehicle. Need a squad here ASAP.”
The dispatcher took the address and promised someone would be there within thirty minutes.
Dax stayed by the car, keeping watch. His hands were steady. His breathing calm. This wasn’t his first time dealing with explosives. Probably wouldn’t be his last.
But the cold fury building in his chest—that was new. Or maybe not new. Maybe just dormant for a while, waiting for the right trigger.
Wheeler had tried to kill Quinn. Would have succeeded if Dax hadn’t insisted on checking the car.
This was attempted murder. No more speculation or theory. Evidence of Wheeler’s intent.
Good. Evidence was what they needed to build a case.
The bomb squad arrived in twenty-five minutes—three techs in full protective gear, their heavy suits making them look otherworldly in the fading daylight.
Dax briefed them on what he’d found, pointing to the undercarriage without getting close.
They set up a perimeter, orange cones and caution tape transforming the quiet residential street into a crime scene.
Dax watched from a safe distance, his arms crossed over his chest, as they carefully examined the device.
The lead tech crouched low, a camera flashing repeatedly.
Ran diagnostics with equipment Dax couldn’t name.
Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably thirty minutes, they disarmed it.
The tension in Dax’s shoulders eased as they placed it in a containment vessel with careful, deliberate movements.